


Killer Within

by Opium_du_Peuple



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Angst, CIA Agent AU, I Don't Even Know, M/M, Rated For Violence, Rickyl, Strong Language, Torture, Violence, a bit bloody, lots of angsts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-26
Updated: 2015-04-19
Packaged: 2018-03-09 05:09:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3237506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Opium_du_Peuple/pseuds/Opium_du_Peuple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Under his new identity, Daryl Hyde has been living in King County for three years. PE teacher by day and Rick Grimes's lover by night, the ex CIA agent couldn't ask for more. All would have been perfect if demons from his past hadn't decided to interfere, killing the members of his former team one by one. And he is next.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One Down, Three to Go

**Author's Note:**

> After imagining every Rickyl AU possible with ijustwantedyoutoneed me, I finally snapped and decided to write this one. I hope you'll like it and reviews are always welcome and appreciated :3

Daryl Hyde took a long drag on his cigarette, welcoming the bittersweet taste of the smoke rushing through his throat to lungs. The after sex cigarette was the best of all, according to the PE teacher. He closed his eyes, exhaling with a little contented sigh. His chest was still damp from all the fooling around that had happened earlier and he could swear a drop of sweat had just rolled down his temple.

When Daryl reopened his eyes, his gaze fell upon the one sharing his bed at this very moment. How on earth had Rick Grimes ended up messing up his bed sheets? The latter's head was nuzzled against a pillow as the epitome of bliss. If smoking was the perfect way to end sex according to Daryl, Rick was more of a quick post-orgasm napper. He wasn't asleep for say, his partner had come to know, just relaxing, recovering his strength.

 A quick look around the room could give a pretty clear idea of what they had been up to. Clothes scattered all over the floor, various objects knocked down in the hurry, closed curtains... Fuck, Daryl thought, I had just finished cleaning the place.

He never really knew when Rick would come by. Of course, they would sometimes plan to meet each other, like civilized people, but most of the time, the deputy would use his own key of the apartment and surprise him. "Take off your clothes," was usually the first words to come out of that pretty little mouth of his.

 This game had been going on for a year now. A year of merry stolen kisses and impromptu visits to his apartment, hidden from the world in the cozy cocoon they had built for themselves. The cocoon would last for a few hours before Rick would go back to his own house, to his own wife and son. Daryl didn't know if it bothered him or not, to share him like he did. On the one hand, he liked his privacy, his independence, the fact that he could do whatever he wanted when he wanted to. But on the other hand, he'd be lying if he'd say his heart didn't pinch every time Rick was leaving his front door.

 The Grimes's marital life was pretty fucked up, as Daryl quickly came to understand. Married too young, the couple had finished to sink into pretenses and lies over the years. Even their son had not managed to get them closer. As a matter of fact, the boy seemed to be the only thin thread holding their marriage together. Keeping appearances for the sake of the child was the only rule that applied to the couple. So much that while Rick was busy with Daryl, Lori, his wife, was sleeping with Rick's best friend. Pretty fucked up indeed. Daryl had no desire whatsoever to step foot in the Grimes household, for any reason. He imagined it to smell like hypocrisy and resentment, mixed with his lover's smell. Not ideal for the young Carl, despite his parent's good intention. And he knew what he was talking about.

 Daryl had moved in to King County, Georgia, about three years ago, eager to blend in and have a fresh start. Soon hired as a PE teacher at King County's Elementary School, he had rented a fairly decent apartment in a quiet residence, which he still occupied today. He couldn't ask for more : a pool, a bed, a lover and 35 hunting channels on TV. For a fresh start, the challenge was successfully met.

He would always remember the first time he had met Rick. When was it? Two years ago? Two and a half years? The date didn't matter anyway. It was a rainy day, around mid-November. The school gymnasium was filled with kids running with basketballs in their hands, dribbling around the field, screaming with enthusiasm. Well... Not just enthusiasm. Among the roar of laughter, Daryl had made out the distinctive sound of cries. Dammit, he had thought to himself, one of the whippersnapper will have managed to hurt himself! He had blown his whistle right away, stopping all the balls at once. No sound was to be heard except the high-pitched cries. The teacher had darted towards the crying kid quickly figuring out what had happened.

 "Let me see" he had ordered.

 The kid had stretched his arm sheepishly, streams of tears still flowing from his eyes. He had sprained his fingers while dribbling around the field, not enough for it to be serious, but still enough for it to be painful. Daryl had cursed under his breath, paying no mind to the hoard of kids around him. 

"Let's go to the infirmary kid, they'll patch you up real quick."

 He had turned toward the rest of the pupils, their little hands still glued to the balls.

 "Continue, you lot! But if any of you is crying when I come back I swear..."

 A threat from him was enough to be certain nothing would happen. No kid would exactly be eager to disobey the command of a bulky, rogue-looking PE teacher in an army jacket. The class had been soon to be over anyway.

Daryl had escorted Carl to the infirmary, a hand resting on the kid's shoulder as the latter kept crying silently. As the nurse had been looking at the injury, the teacher asked :

 "Is there anyone I can call, kid?"

 "My dad," he had answered, grimacing.

 No sooner said than done, Rick had been on the other end of the line and, more quickly than Daryl would have ever imagined, on his way to pick his son up. He had stayed with Carl the whole time, even though "the whole time" had meant about fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes until he had seen that guy arrive in his sheriffs' deputy costume, all worried. Rick had pounced on his son, covering his forehead with reassuring kisses, meant as much for one than the other. Then, after making sure that he was ok, Rick had turn towards Daryl.

 "Rick Grimes, Carl's father."

"Yeah I kinda got that much," Daryl had replied. "Daryl Hyde, the PE teacher."

 Rick had held out his hand for Daryl to shake it, which he did quite more firmly than he had intended to. Both men had kept eye contact, even though the deputy's other hand had been roaming freely into Carl's hair.

 "He is going to be ok?"

 "Yeah, more scared than hurt. He shouldn't move his fist for a day or two and everything will come back to normal."

Daryl smiled, thinking back to this fateful day. Not that he had known it at the time. Actually, Rick wasn't his type. A bit too skinny, too... sub-urban. But he had grown on him. So much that he was now taking all the covers to himself. Countless boys evening, beers, hunting trips, pool games and conversations had led to this moment. For how long have they been sleeping together for say? No idea. A year, probably. When each had realized that the thing they were feeling when they were together was not pure friendship. When Daryl had been fantasizing about Rick's lips furiously kissing his own a bit too often for it to be platonic.

 "You're going to set fire to the bed one day, you know that?" a sleepy voice interrupted.

 Daryl looked down at his lover, still comfortably snuggled against his pillow. His was still stuck on his forehead and even though his face was completely relaxed, he could still see the exhaustion on his features.

"I'm gonna show you who sets fire to what!" the teacher laughed, as he playfully hit his partner's ass through the covers. The room was soon to be filled with laughter, sometimes punctuated by quick kisses.

 

* * *

 

Rick had gone home about an hour ago, to be on time for dinner, as he had explained. Daryl had watched him close the door and peered by the window until the very shadow of Rick Grimes had vanished. The apartment was empty apart from his soul but he didn't mind. Having kids running and screaming around you all day will make you grateful for these moments of peace.

 He crashed onto the couch and grabbed the remote control to put on his favorite hunting show. God bless cable television and all the opportunities it offered him to stay slumped on his ass. He'd worry about the mess later, apart from Rick, he rarely had visitors anyway. He opened a drawer of the coffee table, producing a gun from it. With expert hands and without looking down at them, he proceeded to take the whole thing to pieces before reassembling them together, as easily as if he was putting a 4 piece puzzle together. This exercise was about all that remained of his previous life. That, the gun and the bullets that went along with it. $30,000 in cash in his wardrobe, just in case of an emergency. And an official CIA card in his name. His hair was much shorter in the photograph but he was still easily recognizable. A few years younger maybe. "Daryl Dixon", the card read. Daryl Dixon. It had been an eternity since someone had called him that.

 

* * *

 

"DARYL DIXON, WHERE.IS.HE?!" the man screamed to Rhett's ears.

Rhett himself was semi-conscious. Too many punches aimed right at your jaw and temple will do that to you. The pain was what was keeping him awake. The CIA had trained him in combat and resistance to torture but he wasn't sure of how much of this he would still endure. The man had already cut three of his knukles, making his fingers all the same size. He had not screamed. He had not yelled. And that had seemed to deeply infuriate his torturer.

The latter was waving a photograph in front of Rhett's blood-injected eyes. To tell the truth, the only thing he could make out of it were blurry colored shapes, so asking him to recognize anyone was more than futile. But he didn't need any photograph. Daryl Dixon's face was etched in his skull.

His jaw welcomed yet another punch and he swallowed blood, spitting out two of his teeth on the floor. He couldn't take it anymore. There was no way the man would let him go and that only left him with a single option : pissing him off to end this quicker. He shone a bloody, toothless smile to the torturer.

"Wha' wron' Me'l? Mi'ing your bo'ther?"

Rhett heard the sound of Merle's gun against his temple more than he actually saw it. Here we go. Pull the trigger you bastard.

"Where is he hiding?" he asked, on edge.

"Up your ass."

Merle had to close his eyes to avoid getting some of Rhett's brain into them.

 


	2. Two Down, Two to Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First off, thank you for your awesome comments and kudos it warms my lil' heart big time :3 Keep 'em coming!  
> Brace yourself for some Rickyl fluff and enjoy the ride because it sure won't last for long! With Merle around the corner, there're going to be troubles in paradise!

"What kind of pizza d'you want, kid?" 

Carl barely raised his eyes from his video game, too busy killing some digital aliens or some shit. Daryl had never been one for this kind of thing anyway. He preferred concrete, manual distractions. Hunting was by far on top of his list - he had been hunting with Rick for quite a while – or even woodworking. None of that new age mambo jumbo. 

"Don't care. Just no pineapple, please," he answered, somewhat absent-mindedly 

It was boys night. Usually, that meant Rick and himself would be snuggling on the couch, drinking beer and watching whatever was on TV at the time. Carl had been a recent addition to boys night at Rick's request. Spending time with his son, making memories seemed of the utmost importance for his lover, therefore Daryl didn't object. Even if it eventually meant no sex afterwards.  
He didn't mind having his pupil around, even though his apartment was not particularly kid-friendly. Carl had soon learnt to switch from "Mr. Hyde" to "Daryl" once the school's gates were crossed. As far as he was concerned, his PE teacher was one of his father's bestfriend. Rick had even taken them both fishing once, at Daryl's displeasure. He had hated every single second of it. Too quiet, too static, too boring. And, apparently, so had thought Carl. The two of them had managed to survive that afternoon of torture by making faces at each other, laughing like idiots and getting told off by the deputy for scaring the fish away. 

"'K, I'll take the one with the most meat on it then." 

He skimmed through the delivery flier in search for the said item. So let's see... Cheesy delight... Calzone... Carnivor! Here we go. Chicken, beef, sausage, bacon. A proper boy's meal for a proper boys night. He snorted at the sight of the "veggie king" pizza, printed a bit lower. Who in their right mind could order that kind of blasphemy? He grabbed the phone on the kitchen counter and composed the number printed on the file. Ordering food was a habit for him. Some of his kitchen utensils had remained untouched throughout the years and doing the dishes was a concept that was unheard of. Delivery had all the advantages : fast, good and plate-free. Just a piece of cardboard to throw in the trash afterwards.  
The voice of the operator greeted him and thanked him for his choice with a worn out litany. Daryl got it over with quickly and, once he had made sure the pizza was on its way, hung up the phone. Carl, always true to himself, hadn't moved an inch in the process. Damn, how could kids focus on such tiny screens for hours? He could barely play Angry Birds on his phone for five full minutes!  
Rick let himself in half an hour later. He didn't bother knocking or ringing the bell anymore, Daryl's place was like his own. The deputy had not yet parted with his uniform, it was real second skin. If pizza hadn't gotten much of Carl's interest, the arrival of his father managed to bring him back to Earth. 

"DAD!" 

He was soon to jump off the couch and run towards Rick, whose arms were wide open, ready to sweep the boy off his feet. Daryl watched the scene from the corner of his eyes, busying himself with whatever his hands could fall on : putting stuff away in cupboards, moving the pans... Witnessing this kind of father-and-son moments always made him uncomfortable. It was making him feel as though he was part of an idealized sitcom featuring Mr. Perfect and his accordingly Perfect family. A sitcom he didn't belong to.  
Carl had left his father's arms but insisted on holding his hand to the couch, narrating his day along the way. Petty rivalry with his schoolmates, what he had for lunch, how great he had been at soccer today... And Rick kept nodding, his face displaying a genuine expression of interest. Was it what a father-and-son relationship was supposed to be? Daryl's heart panged. He didn't know the answer to that question, his own folk hadn't exactly been the father-of-the-year... Any year. Ever.  
"And then I ran to the goal as fast as I could! You should have seen it Dad t'was aaaaawesome! And Danny Fischer was at the goal and his face! He knew what was coming for him! And then I scored the epicest goal of all times!" 

"Is that so?" Rick asked, arching his eyebrow towards Daryl, still standing at the other side of the room. 

Daryl crossed his arms, a proud smile blooming on his face. 

"Sure did! The kid's a champ'! Showed 'em who's boss around there."

 

* * *

The three of them had taken place on the couch, absent-mindedly watching the commercials before the match. The Atlanta Falcons were playing against the Washington Redskins, an occasion to gather in the name of the Georgian pride to shout at a screen and drinking copious amounts of beer. Rick was sat in the middle, an arm rolled over Carl's shoulders. On his other side, a cushion was conveniently hiding his hand holding Daryl's, his thumb gently stroking his lover's palm. 

"Who do you think's gonna win, Carl?" Rick asked, pressing the "mute" button to avoid yet another stupid Coke commercial. 

"The Falcons, duh!" 

Daryl tried to hide a smile but was caught by the sharp eyes of the youngest Grimes. 

"What?" 

"Nothing. Just that the Redskins ain't bad. Might even kick the Falcon's ass, man." 

Carl's mouth dropped in horror. How dare he doubt his precious Falcons? Rick's own expression settled somewhere between surprise and amusement. 

"Never knew you were a Redskin enthusiast," he commented. 

"'Lived there for a few years, near D.C. You pick up a thing or two when you stay somewhere, I guess..." 

"So I assume you'd be ready to bet for the Redskins against me and Carl, right? Let's say... 50 bucks?" 

Daryl's smile widened and he squeezed the deputy's hand under the cushion. He knew Rick all too well to mistake his flirty bedroom eyes for friendly and platonic gazes. Lucky for them, Carl couldn't make the difference. 

"Let's make it a 100!" 

Both sneaked their hands from their hiding place and shook them, re-establishing the contact they had broken seconds ago. Carl clapped in elation, already imagining the prize that would fatten up his pocket money. 

The commercial never seemed to end. Rick had decided to mute the TV until the match was on, sick of hearing the same slogans over and over. An add for Pizza Hut was on when the bell rang, announcing the arrival of a more tangible kind of pizza. Rick and Daryl got up together as one, the first going straight to the open kitchen area while the latter answered the door. A well-oiled machine that resulted from countless previous boys nights spent eating fast food and fighting over a blanket. The delivery guy was quickly paid and sent on his way. The smell of hot bread and melted cheese began to spread through the whole apartment. It was like comfort in a cardboard box.  
Daryl got to the kitchen island where Rick was waiting, a knife in hand. The mouth-watering smell increased as they uncovered the pizza, tearing the top of the box out in order to use it as a serving dish. No dishes and cutlery allowed during boys night. Rick undertook to cut even slices, running the knife between bits of beef and cheese, trying to focus and ignore his lover's hot breath on his neck. 

"The Redskins better kick your ass 'cause I don't have a 100 bucks to give ya." Daryl admitted playfully. 

"You can always pay your debts in some other way," the other teased. 

Rick's hand stopped in his motion, half-way through a slice and the two of them shared a sly glance, both knowing what the other had in mind. Without Carl's presence, the kitchen island would have already been used for something else than preparing food. But the kid was well and truly here, as they heard his little high pitched voice from the couch : 

"IT'S STARTING! IT'S STARTING! How do I unmute the TV?!" 

"The remote is in the drawer, kid!" Daryl answered, his mind elsewhere. 

It took him a second. A single second to freeze and feel a cold shiver creeping along his spine. SHIT. The drawer! He turned around, ready to stop Carl from opening anything but it was already too late : 

"Woooow coooool!" 

Fuck. On the other side of the room, Carl was lifting his gun from the drawer, the weapon looking enormous in such tiny little hands. The kid's eyes lit up, fascinated. Of course his dad had a gun too, but he was a cop, that wasn't the same! Knowing that his own teacher had something that cool in his possession was a totally different deal! Daryl rushed towards him, trying not to take it away from him too briskly. It was loaded and the last thing he wanted was to get shot by a middle-schooler in his own apartment. 

"It ain't a toy Carl, give it to me please. It's dangerous" he urged, as calmly as he could. 

Rick's head popped from the kitchen area, his brow furrowed in incomprehension. When his gaze fell on the gun, the situation became somewhat clearer. 

"Carl, put it back." 

The tiny hand reached Daryl's and the gun was soon put away to safety. The teacher went straight to his room and left it inside another messy drawer, somewhere in the midst of his socks and boxers. Somewhere where a kid wouldn't put his hands, he thought. When he got back to the living room, the first thing he noticed was Rick's look. If he had to translate it, it would sound a bit like : "why-the-fuck-do-you-have-that-kind-of-gun-for-this-is-not-a-hunting-rifle-dammit". Apparently, he had some explaining to do. Falling on his back would be easier, after all, they were in America! 

"Relax, I have a permit for that. It's a souvenir from the army. After my contract was over, they let me keep it. For... You know, burglars." 

He had told Rick about his days in the army, he just hadn't told him WHEN he had been in the army. And what had come afterwards. Those days were blurry anyway, even for him. It was like trying to remember through a thick curtain of smoke. So many things had happened that they seemed to belong to another lifetime. To another Daryl. Which, as a matter of fact, they did. They belonged to Daryl Dixon, not Daryl Hyde.  
Rick nodded and went to grab the pizza left on the kitchen island while their host sat on the couch, Carl's fascinated eyes still fixed on him. The remote control was produced out of the good drawer and the TV was unmuted seconds afterwards. 

"Have you ever shot anybody?" the kid asked, tentatively. 

"Only bad guys that really had it comin'. Like your dad" 

"Let's not talk about that, you two! It's football time, not trigger-happy time! And say "cheese"!" 

"What fo..." 

Daryl's question was immortalized by Rick's camera as the deputy had rushed towards the couch and took a selfie, including the other two in the frame. A bit blurry at the edges, you could distinctively make out the teacher's open mouth and furrowed brow and Carl's laughter. Rick's eyes were the part that was the most on focus, his piercing blue eyes staring right at the objective. Later, Daryl would say that even in that photograph, Rick could look through his soul.

 

* * *

Merle's knuckles were bright red. Not from his blood, oh no. He wouldn't spill a drop of his own blood for those fuckers. His little friend sat in the chair let out a heart wrenching whine. He was more bruises and hemoglobin than a person after their little "talk".  
Merle took a deep breath and threw another hit to the guy's chest with his knuckle duster. Yet another hurl escaped the poor sod's lips and Merle smiled. 

"Oops, here goes a rib, Benny." 

He bent his knees to lower at the crying rag's level. He loved it. Everything about it. The metallic scent of blood, the fear in their eyes, the power he had over them. Who would have thought Merle Dixon would end up having his dream job? He grabbed a handful of Benjamin's hair, lifting the latter's head up.  
Jesus, what a mess. 

"Where is Daryl?" he asked for the twentieth time. 

"I don't know..." 

A broken record. Merle's fist dislodged another rib. 

"Still have 22 ribs in there, Benny. You sure you want to go there?" 

The closed fist lifted once again, ready to break something else. The prospect was welcomed by another terrified scream : 

"MICHONNE!" 

Merle stopped his arm in mid air. Here, we're going somewhere. 

"Come again?" 

Benny drew a few deep, painful breaths. Punctured lung, maybe, Merle thought. It wasn't like he was going to get out of here alive, anyway. The man's voice was a mere rattle from all the screaming and pleading. 

"Michonne... She knows... She has the data..." 

Merle let out a sigh of relief. Finally! After three months of research, he was finally getting some valuable information. His brother felt closer than he had for a long time. He was good at hide and seek, his little brother. A hand went to Benny's damp cheek. 

"Alright round 2. Where's that Michonne bitch?"


	3. Two Down, One to Go and the One who Got Away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh wow that took a while! Thank you if you're still there with me on this wild ride! A bit of a change for this chapter I hope you'll like it ;) As ever a big big thank you to my rad beta reader ijustwantedyoutoneedme who still bares with me and my many many many typos ♥

"Wakey wakey..." 

Michonne's head tilted slowly, her chin rolling downwards to her chest. The sudden loss of balance sent a jolt along her spine. Wild eyes snapped wide open.   
If there was a sight Michonne Wilkinson would never have wanted to wake up to, it was Merle Dixon's smug smile. It had been years, three of them during which she had not given him a single thought. He had been long gone, him and all his wretched kind.   
Or at least that was what she had thought up until two months ago. 

In spite of the blur still obstructing her vision, she would have recognized him anywhere. He had not changed one bit. His eyes, deep-set in their sockets, were set ablaze by this particular spark of madness that animated his whole being. She could sense the electricity radiating from his body. He was ecstatic, unable to stay in place. 

"Missed me?" 

The urge to punch him, to make him bleed and to dislodge his teeth one by one with her bare fists all but contrasted with Michonne's blank expression. She had learned to control her anger, to manage the rage. And even though her training was far behind, let to lie fallow for three years, it remained carved into her bones.   
The former agent straightened her back, leaning against the chair she had been tied up to to assess the situation. In front of her eyes, Merle Dixon was practically jumping up and down in excitement, pacing around the place. He's probably taken something, Michonne thought. Daryl had told her about his brother's fondness for PCP, Dimethocaine and so on. It's only when she managed to study him from head to toe that she finally noticed the change. The one and single change in him. In replacement of his right forearm stood a metal prosthetic, fitting the curve of his elbow to perfection. No idea where the Governor had dug up a metal worker talented enough to carve that makeshift limb but it had surely cost a pretty penny. A sharp blade was glistening at its end. Michonne could see her own reflection on the clean iron and guessed it wouldn't stay clean for long. She didn't flinch when Dixon took his gun out from his belt. Lips pursed, composed expression, the only smile she was flashing was inward. He was probably thinking himself a genius, that she had not seen them coming. 

Truth is, she had been waiting for them. 

When a whole team is dissolved and scattered all around the country for their own safety with a new set of identities, one of them undertakes the function of link between them and the Agency. Michonne was that agent. She had access to the others' addresses, yoga memberships, bills and bank details. If anything fishy was going on, she was to report it to the Agency immediately. And she had. Three days after Rhett Lincoln had died, she had reported a lack of activity from her former partner. Him, who used his credit card at Starbucks every single day for his morning latte had suddenly gone silent. For good. She had only been informed much later that Rhett had been found dead and mutilated in his apartment, missing an eye and most of his teeth. Missing an eye... That part of the report had hit Michonne home like a punch in her guts. She had known what that meant right there and then. Who that meant.   
The Agency, however, had not considered Rhett's death like a red flag. "The situation is totally under control, Wilkinson". Bullshit. Michonne wasn't born from last night. She knew the Agency, and as much as she loved working for them, she knew there was only one thing the Agency would protect at all cost : itself. And if the Governor's retaliations were not a direct threat to them, there was no way they would help. Which explained why she had received the report on Rhett's death so late : "There was no need for you to consult it.". Oh but there was. Had she seen it sooner, she could have known. Had she seen it sooner, she could have saved Benny. Had she seen it sooner, she could have saved herself.   
But the CIA had gambled with their lives and she had had to use the few aces she had up her sleeves to preserve what three years of normal life had given her. Saving her son's life rather than her partners' had not been the dilemma she had expected it to be. She had expected guilt and shame to overcome her but to tell the truth, relief was the only emotion running through her veins. The relief of knowing her one year old was safe on the other side of the planet, far away from this mess, from Merle and most of all, from the Governor. The time she had had between reading of the report and this fateful night had been solely employed to that end. Getting Andre out of the picture. She had gotten rid of his toys, pictures, nursery wallpaper, formula, baby furniture. Everything that would have indicated a child was living under her roof. As far as Merle was concerned, she had no son. And she had gone to great lengths to keep it that way. 

"The floor is secured, Sir," a male's voice blurted out from the corridor. 

A young man, barely out of his teens slunk into the living room, his arms heavy of the gun he was carrying. So the Governor recruits them right out of high school now, Michonne thought. She could tell, by the boy's jittery glances towards Merle, that he was out of place. He was but a goldfish in an ocean of sharks. But who knows, maybe Dixon started the same way.   
The latter leaned towards the captive, his hateful smirk growing double. 

"See, my good lad Neil over here just made sure that we wouldn't be interrupted by... prying neighbors. We don't want that now, don't we?" 

The message was loud and clear : scream and call for help all you want, no one is going to come for you. She had not counted on it anyway. When you want to get things done, you have to do it yourself. 

"It's... Gargiulo, Sir. Not.. Not Ne..." 

The boy stopped dead at the look he was cast. 

"I'll stick to Neil," Dixon replied dryly, before returning to his initial focus. 

The boy swallowed the lump that blocked his throat and straightened, probably to look more imposing and professional. 

"Now, where were we?" 

An unexpected fist found its way to Michonne's jaw, splitting her lower lips in the process. She managed to keep the howl of pain she was dying to let out for herself but her breathing got undeniably faster. So it begins. She spat the blood flooding her mouth on the parquet before reassuming her position against the back of the chair. In the background, the kid had his eyes fixed on the wall. Merle, on the other hand, had eyes only for her. 

"A little bird told me you know where my baby brother is." 

Jesus, was this really all about Daryl Dixon? She would have thought this little vendetta was meant for her given... What had went down. For the first time since she had come to, Michonne furrowed. Merle's laugh reverberated throughout the apartment. 

"You didn't think I came all this way just for you, did ya?" 

He patted the back of his trousers, looking for something in his pockets. She was soon presented with polaroid photographs but Dixon's hand was too shaky for her to discern anything. The only thing she could make out was a deep red. 

"Took a mug shot of your lil' friends, ya know me, good ol' sentimental Merle. Well, I say mug shot but I wouldn't call that a mug anymore." 

He pressed one of the polaroid against her nose. Benny's blood-injected eyeball was staring at her, slightly dislodged from its socket. She vaguely wondered whether or not the photograph had been taken post-mortem. Poor bastard. 

"See, they didn't know where my brother is... Or so they said. So I had to make sure." 

The dots were connecting. Rhett had been the first one to be found and since he had failed to give Dixon what he wanted, the latter had preyed on the next in line. How he had managed to find them in the first place, Michonne had no idea. The data had either leaked or been paid with blood. And if Rhett had been honest in his ignorance, Benny had talked. He is not to blame, she thought. There's so much the body and mind can endure. So was this what was going to happen to her too? Hits, punches, cuts, bites until she squealed Daryl's location? As though he had read her mind, Dixon smiled. 

"Shame, I'd have loved to immortalize your lil' mug too. But I know someone who wants to see you in one piece before that happens. He misses you very very very much, ya know that?" 

A shiver ran along Michonne's spine. Thinking about him was one thing, knowing that he did as well was another. Dixon wanted her alive so that she could suffer twice as much later. And given where she was bound to end up, dying here and now seemed like the most pleasant option. 

The loud ringtone of a cellphone. Immediately, Dixon took a step back, glaring at his "assistant" for this disturbance but the latter shook his head, claiming his innocence with a terrified look on his face. The older one tucked his gun into his belt and plunged his hand in his jeans. 

"Speaking of the devil..." he muttered, looking at the screen. "Hold that thought." 

Hesitant at first, he turned his back on Michonne and took a few steps towards the kid. 

"Keep an eye on her, I have to take this." 

He disappeared into the corridor, going God knows where to answer the call. For a second, she pictured Merle Dixon leaning against her kitchen island, looking at himself into the reflecting surface of the fridge. Again, something that she would never had imagined before tonight. The conversation was muffled by the walls but some snitches were still getting through : "She here", "alive", "no trouble".   
As uncomfortable as ever, the kid was scrupulously avoiding looking in Michonne's direction even though he had expressly been ordered to watch her closely. Taking advantage of his guilty conscience, the captive began to shuffle her wrist slightly. Handcuffs. Pretty loose ones too. Dixon was probably used to tie up people with thicker wrists than hers. She tried to slide her hand through the cold metal but her thumb blocked her way out. Great. She pushed a bit harder, feeling her skin peeling against the ring, the painful bite and sting of exposed flesh sending flares across her whole body. I need to buy myself some time... 

"You don't have to do this, you know?" 

The kid jumped slightly. Of all the things he hadn't taken in account, being talked to by his future victim was at the top of the list. He blinked, visibly unsure whether he had dreamt it or not. His lips pursed and his fingers tightened against the gun he was holding, shielding himself. He was too uncomfortable to notice Michonne's straight face and her thumbs skinning themselves against the handcuffs. Halfway through... If she could keep him busy a while longer before the end of the call then maybe... 

"Is that who you want to become? Merle Dixon? One hell of a role model if you ask me..." 

He closed his eyes and Michonne was convinced that if he had had the chance, he would have covered his ears too. See no evil, ear no evil. As for to speak no evil... 

"Please, _stop._ " 

The tone was almost pleading. She had hit home. And if she had not been tied to a chair and about to be delivered to the Governor, she would have felt sorry for him. 

"You're not one of them.. Gargiulo? Make the right decision while you still can. You seem like a.." 

The fake plea was cut short by her own thick coughs. It caught Gargiulo's attention, his gaze leaving the wall to focus on her, at long last. Mouth agape, he seemed at a complete loss as to how he had to handle the situation. In front of his eyes, the woman was straining on her throat, almost choking, tears rolling down her cheeks. He had to keep her alive, dammit! Who knows what would happen to him if she died on his watch! 

"What's happening?! What's going on?!" 

"My meds.." she gasped. "In my pockets.." 

The boy hesitated for a second but the urgency of the situation lowered his guard and he sprung on Michonne, patting her pockets in search for the said medication. He barely noticed the coughing stopping dead. To be fair, he barely had time to notice anything. Michonne's knee hit his nose so violently that it broke. Taking a few staggering steps back, hands already drenched in blood, he saw the captive standing on her feet, free of any restraint. She grabbed the chair and shattered it onto his back before he could react. 

Everything hurt. Her jaw hurt, her thumbs hurt, her back hurt, her throat hurt. But now she was free. Her gaze fell upon the unanimated body on the floor. Can't believe he fell for that, she thought. Just a kid. But there was no time for introspection. With one swift move, she retrieved a gun from the inside of a chest of drawers. Dixon must have been alerted by the noise because his panicked silhouette was sketching on the wall. She needed to get out of here and quickly. Michonne ran to the bedroom, locking the door behind her. It wouldn't hold for long but it would be enough to delay him. With all of the strength she could gather, she punched the bed against the door. A gun could undo the lock in a blink of an eye but getting rid of that kind of weight would be a different story.   
The cold bit her mutilated fingers as she opened the window but there was no time for pain or whining. Not when an armed bastard was trying to get you. 

She didn't have a lot of backstairs to climb down, luckily, her apartment was on the second floor. But every step was hasty and fuelled by adrenaline. A loud bang informed her that the door had just given in to Dixon's abuse. Her foot touched the ground at that same instant. A gunshot resonated through the old iron stairs. So much for the "bringing you alive to the boss" part of Dixon's litany then. Better bring her cold body rather than no body at all. But Michonne had the upper hand : going down two flights of stairs was a challenge, but doing it one-hand short was stuff of miracles.

The run lasted for at least two miles before she dared stop. Her heart was hammering in her chest and ears, telling her to run some more, just to be sure. She had ended up in a low income neighborhood surrounded by high-rise blocks. Dixon would go looking for her here. He probably expected her to run... Who knows? A hotel? The first train leaving town? To be fair, Dixon had not expected her to run at all. The feeling of her victory over the Governor was exhilarating but short-lived. She was out of his claws but homeless. She would figure this out later. For the time being, she jumped on the first payphone in sight. Picking up the phone set her knuckles ablaze. No time, no time for this. You'll go to a doctor later. No hospitals... It's the first place Dixon is going to go... 

She had memorized Daryl Dixon's phone number by heart. It was almost funny to dial it, by night, at a fucking payphone in the middle of a ghetto. It rang for what felt like an eternity. 

"Hello?" 

"They're coming."


	4. Denial

Entangled in his bedsheets, the slab of Rick's arm resting on his bare chest, Daryl couldn't comprehend a word his interlocutor was saying. The interferences were not improving his already irritable mood. Being woken up in the middle of the night by a phone call will do that to you. The artificial light had made him squint and groan as he had checked the number of the incoming call. Unknown. Great.

"They are coming," the voice insisted a second time, stressing on the last word as if it was vital information. But Daryl's mind was still too hung up to a limbo between sleep and consciousness, the warmth of his bed still clinging to his limbs, to register the information. But if the words didn't make any sense, the voice itself began to mean something to him. He had already heard that voice. Long before all this. In another life. His eyes grew twice their original size at the realization.

" _Michonne?!_ "

Next to him, Rick Grimes's sleeping body shuffled into the sheets with a moan, shutting Daryl up instantly. Thank God for his heavy sleep, otherwise he would have jumped to the ceiling. The PE teacher's mouth went suddenly dry. If Michonne Wilkinson was calling him in the middle of the night after a 3 year radio silence, it surely wasn't about organizing a tea party reunion.

"They're coming."

Daryl froze. The previous warmth of comfort had shifted into an unpleasant, damp coolness. Even his forehead was covered in cold sweat. They were coming. They had found them.

For the first time in years, he found himself speechless, incapable to process the information. It was over. This life. This job. This man, sleeping next to him. It was all going to go down. His hands were trembling.

"Daryl?"

Michonne's voice snapped him back to reality. He couldn't stay in bed to talk about this, he needed to get up. Carefully, he slid across the bed to get rid of Rick's arm, letting it fall on the mattress where he had previously been lying. So was this it? Was this the last bit of intimacy he was ever going to have with Rick? If he had known, he would have made it special... Better than an evening spent watching TV and drinking beer. He would have made love with him differently too... Jesus, fuck, had he been taking Rick for granted all this time?! His unsteady fingers dug up his underwear from an abandoned pile of clothing on the floor. Even his legs were betraying him on his way out; he had to stop and rest against the chest of drawers to catch his breath properly and reason with his wobbly limbs. At the other end of the line, Michonne's breath was echoing his own.

He finally made it out to the living room and slouched on the couch, a hand pinching the bridge of his nose. He had to focus on something, to direct his fear and panic on something else than the thought of losing everything he had.

"What happened?" he merely asked, his voice made all rasp by the unexpected awakening and news.

A deep sigh covered with interference raised from the receiver, as if Michonne was bracing herself before telling a long story.

"It's Merle. He was at my place tonight."

The mention of his brother shouldn't have surprised him but it still hit him like a brick.

"Tied me up. He tried to make me spill some intel."

"What kind of intel?"

"About you. He was looking for you. He got Rhett and Benny. They're _dead_ , Daryl."

The lump in his throat grew bigger, preventing any sound from coming out. But even without that, Daryl didn't have the slightest idea of how he felt. Terrified. Guilty. Out of his depth. On the verge of breaking anything in his reach. All of the above and even more but this was no time for introspection. Remember your training, he thought to ground himself, the last thing you want is to panic. They had been trained to respond to countless types of extreme, impossible situations. But this hadn't been included in the CIA boot camp, that was for sure.

"Did ya tell him anythin'? Where I live, in what state, anything?" he asked after a heavy silence.

He was damn sure he didn't want the answer to that question but all the same, the few seconds it took for Michonne to reply felt like centuries. In spite of the sultry summer weather, Daryl was cold, very cold.

"Nothing. I've deleted everything, every file related to any of us."

It was like the balloon of stress and anxiety that had been filling up inside of him just popped. BAM! His shoulders sagged against the sofa accompanied with a long sigh of relief. The sigh slowly turned into a vague chuckle and eventually a frank laughter.

"Jesus _fuck_ , Michonne! I nearly had a _heart attack_!"

On the other end, her colleague didn't seem to share his hilarity.

"Are you fucking _deaf_?! They were at my apartment! They want you! And you're fucking _laughing_?! Did you go mental over the last three years?!"

"Michonne, they ain't got nothing on me, they don't know where I am. They don't know. They have no fucking idea where I'm hidin'."

A smile had bloomed on his lips at the mere thought of his own security. He was out of their reach. If they had gone to Michonne for information and found jack squat, there was no way they could track him down to King County. If he had listened to himself right then, he would have woken Rick on the spot and celebrated the news properly. But he had all the time in the world now, didn't he? For now, there were more pressing matters at hand :

"Where are you?"

"What?"

"Where are you?" he repeated. "What state, city, town, cabin in the woods, whatever?"

Michonne remained silent, as if reluctant to give him the information. She had been keeping secrets for so long that revealing the slightest bit of intel was like an insufferable treason.

"Around Nashville, Tennessee," she finally let out.

Tennessee... Well that wasn't so bad, a four hour drive still but it wasn't as if she was up in Boston or Vegas. Daryl surveyed the room in search for his car keys. He would have to put some pants on before hopping into the car.

"Ok, what street? I'm coming to get you."

"There's some place I need to go first, I'll meet you there."

"What place?"

"A gym club. I've rented a locker there in case of... emergency."

That indeed registered as an emergency.

"Great, what is it?"

"Powerhouse Gym, in Dickson."

"Are ya fuckin' kiddin' me?"

 

* * *

Daryl looked at the clock on his dashboard. 4:45am. Good thing tomorrow was a Sunday. Well... Good thing today was a Sunday, to be fair. Otherwise he would have been late for work. The mere prospect of going to work tomorrow drew the corners of his lips up. He was going to go to work tomorrow. There's nothing like the possibility of losing everything to make one realize how much they loved their lives. His little routine, the kids (even though some were a pain in the ass from time to time), his evenings and scarce weekends with Rick... He had come to care about all that. To be faced with the necessity of leaving had been terrifying. The first time around, when they had had to change their names and locations, it hadn't bothered him more than that. His old apartment was merely the place he was when he wasn't at work, he had had no friends apart from his teammates and colleagues. No, moving had not meant much to him back then, a blank slate if anything. The only thing he ever missed was the job itself.

But this time it was different. He had friends, a boyfriend, a favorite hunting spot... He had even replaced the parquet of the bedroom himself, dammit! So no, no one was chasing him away. He had kept a low profile for three years and didn't intend to let his efforts go to waste.

Driving up the 840, Daryl saw the sign for Dickson. He'd be there in half-an-hour at the most. Dickson... He couldn't believe she had picked this place for the sheer pleasure of its name. It was as if he had opened a bar named "Wilk and sons".

Deep down, he had always known that she was their Monitor. She had always been the most trust-worthy out of the four of them, always composed, always more steadfast. Of course the Agency had trusted her with all of their new names and addresses and coming and going and... living, really. Benny couldn't be trusted with the care of a cactus and Rhett was the kind of person who would have used your address to send you five pizzas at 5am. Had been... They had been these kinds of persons... It sent a punch to his chest and, by reflex, he slowed down a bit. He tried to chase the thought away immediately, as he had for the whole trip now. They were dead. And he knew he couldn't rationally blame himself : they had been dead the moment someone from Woodbury had ferreted them out. But he was the reason they had gotten chased down in the first place. They were looking for him. After all this time, Woodbury had finally managed to get on its feet and track down those who had been responsible for its downfall.

But they weren't going to find him, oh no. He would never let that happen.

The first lights of Dickson appeared soon after, along with its "Welcome" sign. The former agent's pick up truck took a quick halt as Daryl took a closer look to the map. The scale of the map was too damn large to detail the insignificant city helpfully but he still had Michonne's directions in mind. A wandering thought reminded him of Rick, always telling him to get a GPS because this was the 21st century for fuck's sake. He had never trusted those. He used to joke about it to his friend Carol, saying that "he wouldn't trust a woman's sense of direction", which would invariably earn him a punch.

The gym club was a bit further downtown, nothing too tricky to find. Dickson was a lot like King County and the main road was basically where all the things of interest were. He took another look at the clock : 5:11am. They would be back by 10am at the most. So much for breakfast.

"Nashville is a long drive." Rick had said when Daryl had quickly tried to explain the reason of this unexpected road trip.

The cop had finally been woken up by his boyfriend's chatter in the other room. Apparently, he had waited for the latter to come back to the bedroom to ask for an explanation. Daryl could still picture his bed head and the mark of the pillow on his cheek.

"She doesn't have anywhere else to go. Tennessee ain't so bad, it's not like she is in Portland."

Rick had sighed, even though it might have been more from the early awakening than anything else. He had looked at Daryl putting on his pants before the runaway teacher had sat on the bed next to him.

"I'll try to be back by breakfast ok?"

"Don't you fucking dare! If I so much as learn you went over the speed limit once, so help me I'll go all Sheriff's deputy on you!"

The car park of the gym club was obviously empty at this hour, which made it easy to make out Michonne's silhouette in the darkness. Daryl stopped the car and looked at the slim shadow, weighed down by a heavy looking travel bag. She threw the said bag to the back of the pick up and sat next to him in silence. If her mouth wasn't saying anything, her stare was doing all the work. They held each other's gaze for a while before Daryl's shifted to the building. It was a big square of red bricks and windows the size of a supermarket, not the place he would have imagined her go.

"How did ya get in without settin' off the alarm?" he ended up asking.

"I've been in the CIA for seven years, do you really think I've never picked a lock?"

Her voice devoid of humor and yet Daryl's smirk grew bigger. He had missed her, it was just seeing her now that made him realize how much. She turned her face towards him, revealing the nasty bruise that colored her cheek, previously hidden by the dim lighting.

"He did that to ya?"

"Yeah, he was all sunshine and rainbows. Now start the damn car."

They remained quiet until Daryl found his way back to the main road, driving along the same path he had followed to get there. It had been a long night for the both of them and he would have killed to stretch his legs a bit. He had lost the habit of driving long distances, the farther he got in the last few years was a football match in Atlanta. Spending four hours on the road had drained him and here he was, bracing himself for four more.

"If we act fast we can book a flight for this afternoon," Michonne eventually said.

She had used her serious "strategic plan making" tone, the same she was using at the Agency to explain the details of a future mission. She had probably spent the hours of waiting figuring their next move out. What she had not taken into account was Daryl's say on the matter.

"What for?"

"What do you think is going to happen now? We have to leave the country, Dixon. It's the only way, they're onto us!"

The annoyance in her voice was quite clear. She was a skilled strategist, she liked to think ahead and knowing what the next thing would be, Daryl knew that. But she was dead wrong if she thought he was leaving King County. He kept staring at the straight road ahead of him.

"No, I mean 'what for?'. They don't know where I am, there's no reason to go anywhere, is there?"

"Yeah you tell yourself that."

"I ain't going nowhere."

A heavy, pissed silence followed. The driver thought about turning the radio on to fill it but decided otherwise as his finger was reaching for the button. It'll make it even worse, he thought. Listening to the classic rock station airing the same songs over and over again wasn't the best ice breaker in the universe. There was no possible way the Governor's men would find him now. The only person who knew all the details of his life was sat next to him with a bitter look on her face. Why would he have to worry? Yes, they were looking for him but the States was a big fucking piece of land. For all they knew he could as well be in Alaska!

"I have a couch you can sleep on," Daryl let out.

"I know, I've seen the IKEA receipt a few months back."

He smiled, imagining her poring over the slightest information about his new life. She probably already knew everything about him at this point. The weird thing was, he had no idea what kind of person she had become. Which was unnerving when you consider he had just driven 300 miles to pick her up.

"Michonne Wilkinson the Monitor. Suits you. I guess there's nothing I could tell ya ya don't already know, hey?"

He tried to think of all the shameful purchases he could have made. All the porn by cable things and the stuff he had bought with Rick. He suddenly felt every exposed. Some stuff were supposed to stay private, especially the bedroom stuff. But in a way, he could consider himself lucky that Michonne had been the one keeping an eye on them rather than... the others. Oh they would have had a laugh...

"Do ya have...?"

"I have a baby."

'Have', not 'had', he noticed. Nonetheless, he couldn't help himself but asking :

"Did Merle...?"

Michonne shook her head vigorously and Daryl sighed in relief, relaxing against his seat. The mere thought had gotten him all tensed up.

"Congrats."

"I sent him to Australia, I have people there", she continued. "I got rid of everything so they wouldn't find him, you know? Don't even have a picture to show you."

Daryl's foot hit the breaks so violently the both of them were lifted up from their seats. On the empty road, the lone car stopped dead.

_"YOU KNEW?!"_

His knuckles whitened as he griped the wheel harder. She knew. She had known long enough to put her boy to safety and she had not thought once about giving him a heads up?! Michonne's eyes were locked on an invisible point in front of her, her unreadable expression doing nothing less than fueling Daryl's anger.

"Ya fucking knew what they were up to! You left me in the dark! They could have showed up at my door and I wouldn't have had a fucking clue!"

"Time wasn't exactly on my side. I had a decision to make and I made it."

"You could have picked up the goddamn phone!"

"No, Dixon, I _couldn't_!"

Her tone had suddenly got so loud and so intimidating that Daryl shut up immediately. It was bearing all the abuse she had underwent, how she had been attacked a few hours ago, separated from her little boy, forced to leave the place she had come to call home.

"I couldn't even save _myself_! I couldn't even leave with him because I had to take care of everything! I had to protect him, I had to protect you, you ungrateful little shit! So no, I couldn't pick up the goddamn phone, I was too busy saving your ass!"

The outburst felt like a slap. Michonne had a raging storm howling within her body and soul, ready to tear everything and everyone apart, her driver included if he didn't stop with his accusations.

He would have done the same, they both knew it. If he had known the Governor's men were on their way, he would have put Rick first. He would have told him... God knows what, to be honest. That they were going on extended vacations, probably. Or the plain, simple truth. Except no truth was ever simple.

He had often thought about telling him everything. The real reason for his arrival at King County, what he used to do for a living, what kind of shit had gone down. When they had become friends, he had postponed it, telling himself that then was not the time. When they had become lovers, he had still kept his mouth shut because it was too late. How are you supposed to admit to someone that your whole life was a lie? Everything you had told them was a big pile of half-truths and grey areas? How does one regain trust after that? So he had kept it all in, even avoiding thinking about it, convincing himself that the lies he was telling were real. But the truth was a sneaky little bitch that always found ways to catch up with you.

He pushed the cigar lighter button to heat it up and resumed his driving. Outside, the tentative pastels of dawn were coloring the skies with soft purples and pinks. Daryl would have liked the sight if he hadn't been too busy driving with one hand while the other was fumbling into his pockets to get a cigarette. He held the pack out to Michonne but she shook her head. He shrugged and lit the tube with the now reddened cigar lighter.

"What are we going to tell... Rick?" she asked.

She really knew everything there was to know, didn't she? The driver cocked an eyebrow in her direction, smiling at the name. For all he knew, Rick was probably still curled up in his bed, waiting for the alarm to go off. He would dress in his sinfully sexy uniform and go kick some asses in a few hours, long before they would be home. But he'd ask questions, sooner or later.

"That you're an old friend, I guess. That ya need somewhere to crash for a while."

None of that was a lie. As for the details... They would have to work something out. Maybe a bad breakup or financial issues.

"That I'm wanted by a criminal organization that is set on having our heads on a spike?" she smirked.

"You're not leaving anything up to his imagination, are ya?"


End file.
